Wander down the
steel-lined corridors
of Ohm number six.
Each plate and rivet a
pattern there and there
a ratted engine
alone beyond the shorting
lights.
Polymer and titanium
weave,
the carbon-burned suit
you wear about your
shoulders hold
nitrogen and O
two from pressure in and
out.
Distressing signal in
emptiness
transmit between
ragged protean wavelengths
barely
silent still, and not
there or there but here.
“Scuttle remains in less
than thirty-two
hours”, head
contractor's static response
without the view of
empty eyes and hulls
thrown torn.
A single stray
less-than-light
and space becomes a
junkyard
feast.
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